


so come on let me in, I will be the sun

by waferkya



Series: moonshine [1]
Category: Basketball RPF
Genre: M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Underage Sex, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-19 00:23:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waferkya/pseuds/waferkya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You could work on your subtlety,” he says, his voice rich and rumbling like thunder in the distance, and it’s a warning that he’s just as dangerous as a lightning storm, only ten times over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so come on let me in, I will be the sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrBalkanophile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrBalkanophile/gifts).



“You could work on your subtlety,” he says, his voice rich and rumbling like thunder in the distance, and it’s a warning that he’s just as dangerous as a lightning storm, only ten times over.

Ricky freezes with his hand halfway in the air, reaching for a box of cereals; he’d very much like to look around to see if anyone else’s in the aisle, but he can’t really tear his eyes off of _him_ , who’s studying the back of two different bags of cookies like he doesn’t know already he’ll pick the ones stuffed with apple marmalade.

“Uhm,” Ricky says. He’s painfully aware, now, of just how much his leather jacket doesn’t fit him. It was his father’s, passed down on Ricky’s fourteenth birthday, and even though he’s now seventeen and several inches taller than his father’s ever dreamed to be, Ricky still can’t really fill it out so well. It hungs too large on his shoulders, sleeves drooping way past his wrists, and when he zips it up, he looks insanely silly.

It’s his favourite jacket, though, it smells like childhood and home and hot hazelnut chocolate on the coldest days of winters, with enough whipped cream on top you could dive in it.

“I’m just saying,” Juan Carlos mumbles, with half of what could be easily mistaken as a friendly smile. He puts the chocolate cookies back on the shelf.

Ricky thinks, _fuck it all._ He clears his throat and walks to him.

“Hi,” he says.

Juan Carlos looks at him with a blank face and slightly raised eyebrows, but there’s nothing really annoyed about him, which Ricky quickly lists as a victory.

“They do teach you vocabulary in school, right?” he asks, the corners of his mouth twitching. Ricky bites back a smile.

“Yeah, I never paid much attention in class, I liked PE better,” he says, shrugging a little, and then he’s holding out his hand to introduce himself, you know, like civilized people do when they’re totally not stalking other civilized people, only Juan Carlos grabs his wrist halfway through the movement without even taking his eyes off Ricky’s face.

Ricky realizes his mistake; right, no sudden moves or anything; he barks out half a nervous laughter. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Juan Carlos says; slowly, he lets go of Ricky’s wrist — crap, his grip was _tight_ , — and shakes his hand instead. “I know who you are.”

Ricky doesn’t even want to keep himself from straight-out beaming up at him now.

“Of course you do.” Juan Carlos laughs at that, or, well, it’s more like he breathes out very sharply through his nose, but there’s definitely an amused twinkle in his eyes, so Ricky rambles on. “I live around the corner.”

Juan Carlos says, “I should hope so,” looking at him from under his lashes, which is usually Ricky’s specialty and, wow, so that’s what it feels like, even though Juan Carlos is a total amateur at this and there’s a big possibility he’s not even doing it on purpose. “You’re here every day.”

Ricky feels himself blush, but he tries to play it cool.

“My shopping skills suck,” he says, shrugging; Juan Carlos looks at him and Ricky stuffs his hands in his pockets, a hot shiver running down his spine.

Did they turn up the heating in this place? The temperature seems to have spiked up all of a sudden, and Ricky focuses on the jacket’s smell — his dad, his family, it digs up a thousand memories from when he was a kid and Ricky breathes a little easier.

Juan Carlos stares at him, blinking a little too much; his eyes are big and neither brown nor green nor black, but an iridescent shade inbetween, and deep enough to swallow the world; he tilts his head to the side, like he’s curious, like he’s looking at something interesting, even though it’s only Ricky.

“You’re in heat,” he says, matter-of-factly. Ricky gasps, he’s so surprised he even laughs a little.

“I’m— I’m not,” he babbles, unconvincingly. He tries very hard not to blush but even the tips of his ears are flushing red.

Juan Carlos is still staring, adamant.

“What is it, then? Three, four days away?”

Ricky hates him because he’s so calm, and collected, and so very still. He hates him because he likes cookies stuffed with apple marmalade, which were Ricky’s favourite first, and maybe he even dunks them in Cola Cao milk, which is and has been Ricky’s drug of choice since he was old enough to properly fall in love with chocolate.

Ricky hates him because he’s right.

He nods and admits, under his breath, “Should be four days.”

Juan Carlos presses his lips into a tight, contrite line. “I can’t stop it,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

He’s so genuinely concerned, and he’s so close and tall and his beard is _majestic_ and Ricky has a serious weakness for bearded men; he doesn’t think about it, he doesn’t need to: his hands are cupping Juan Carlos’ neck and a moment later, Ricky kisses him without a word or a breath of warning. His impossibly long lashes brushing Juan Carlos’ cheeks, his tongue darting out to lick at his lips; Ricky takes half a step forward, drawn into the messy warmth of Juan Carlos’ body.

Juan Carlos reached out to grab him the moment Ricky started leaning in, but he doesn’t push him away now; his hands end up on Ricky’s hips, keeping him still no matter how hard the kid tries to press himself closer.

And he returns the kiss, Juan Carlos; for all he tries not to, Ricky is a stubborn bastard himself, and there’s only so much Juan Carlos can do — keep him steady, not stumble back into the cart, fight back the urge to shove him across the aisle and beat him to a sorry pulp, — before he gives up and opens him mouth against Ricky’s.

The kiss is an hungry thing, wet and needy, like everything when heat’s around the corner; Ricky touches Juan Carlos’ beard, the short hair at the back of his neck, he pushes his fingers against the lumps of his spine and when he tilts his head back to draw in a breath, he’s quick to shove his nose under the curve of Juan Carlos’ jaw.

He’s making a soft, whiny sound against Juan Carlos’ skin and he doesn’t even realize it. Juan Carlos gives in a little more, slipping one arm around Ricky’s waist to hug him tight, his other hand moving up to Ricky’s hair.

“Hey, Ricky, it’s okay,” he murmurs, but his voice is hardly making its way through Ricky’s panic.

Ricky’s heart is still bouncing up and down in his chest like a crazed tennis ball, and he pushes more into Juan Carlos, grabbing the back of his hoodie.

“Please?” he breathes out, and Juan Carlos goes very very still for a moment, which terrifies Ricky to no end.

His heart now is pounding like it wants to punch its way out of Ricky’s chest, and Juan Carlos must’ve heard that, of course he has.

“You’re safe with me,” Juan Carlos says. “It’s okay,” and slowly, that’s what does the trick.

Ricky thinks, _this is my Alpha_ ; he smells the soothing, rich scent of Juan Carlos and the terrified daze starts melting away. By the time he’s okay again, he’s fitted so wondefully in Juan Carlos’ embrace he doesn’t really want to move anymore.

Ricky kisses a line up Juan Carlos’ neck, the beard tickling his lips, all the way to his earlobe, which Ricky bites a little. _Shitfuckohmyfuckinggod_ , he thinks, _did I seriously just_ bite _him_ , but Juan Carlos doesn’t even stir, so it’s probably okay. Either that, or Ricky is going to die a painful, bloody death in the next five seconds.

When he’s still breathing after a full minute, he relaxes a bit.

“Juanki,” he says, to which Juan Carlos _does_ flinch, and Ricky grins. “Can I go home with you?”

*

Everyone knows that Juan Carlos is still living in the city where he was born, Sant Feliu, barely ten miles North of Barcelona. He could’ve moved to the best hotels in the capital, switching houses every other day in the most expensive, most exclusive neighbourhoods of Catalunya, he could’ve built himself a fucking manor on the beach of Barceloneta even before he became the Alpha, when he was still just a player for Barcelona’s basketball team; instead, for some reason, he decided to stick to the Baix Llobregat.

He doesn’t have his address and phone number on the yellow pages, of course, but apparently he’s the friendliest neighbour in the history of neighbourhood since probably Peter Parker, so even though nobody can pinpoint the exact location of his home, if you ask around it shouldn’t be so hard to find. Not that Ricky has ever tried. Absolutely not.

The car ride is more fun than he’d expected. Juan Carlos lets him play with the radio, probably hoping that keeping his hands busy with that, Ricky won’t make another attempt to stuff them into his pants, which he may or may not have tried while Juan Carlos was pulling out from the parking lot.

It works, to some extent, because Ricky finds it endlessly amusing to skip from one station to another mid-song; he feels like a dj.

Juan Carlos doesn’t talk much, which isn’t really surprising. What’s honestly ground-breaking impressive, though, is the fact that he actually _smiles_ so much. Ricky started noticing it at the grocery store, when the checkout lady handed back Juan Carlos’ change with a broad, if maybe a bit terrified smile, and he tipped his head down a little and his mouth was slightly curved upwards.

At first, Ricky thought he was seeing things, because he had been assuming that the amount of kindness Juan Carlos’d shown him was due to Ricky’s undeniable charm, good looks and overall awesomeness. Instead, his Alpha is seriously the most lovable guy on Earth.

You look at him on TV and you just figure he’s a grumpy, wary thing that’ll rip your throat out with his teeth in under four seconds if you so much as look at him the wrong way; that’s the kind of aura he’s got whenever he’s dealing with other annoying Alphas, annoying journalists or annoying talk-show hosts. And then you meet him, and he’s so kind, and he looks so soft and huggable and he _smiles_ so much. It’s a subtle thing, like maybe just above the subatomic spectre, but if you pay attention you can’t not notice it and if Ricky had a crush before, — a crush that he mostly fed off hours of TV and newspaper articles and reruns of Barcelona’s games from ten years ago, and all the international competitions, — right now he’s absolutely burned.

“Juanki,” he says, as they pull out of the highway. “You know, I’ve never even been to Sant Feliu before.”

Juan Carlos looks at him for a brief second.

“I can hear it when you lie,” he says, and he’s doing it again — his mouth, uncharacteristically twitching up at the corners. Ricky sinks into his seat a little more.

“I know. I like your smile, though.”

Juan Carlos’ eyebrows get tugged into a small frown.

“I’m not smiling.”

“No, now you’re frowning like I ate all your biscuits,” Ricky says, laughing. “But you’re still adorable.”

He sticks out his tongue when Juan Carlos turns around to gape at him, clearly outraged. It’s like there’s a neon sign blinking on his face, a bright red _I’m your Alpha, what is wrong with you?_ , but apparently, words are too much even for the almighty Alpha right now.

“Why did I even let you get into my car,” Juan Carlos mutters to himself, and maybe the next curve he takes is a bit too sharp. Ricky giggles some more.

“It’s not my fault I’m young and handsome and amazing.”

That makes Juan Carlos laugh, and Ricky beams, absurdly proud of himself.

“Right,” Juan Carlos says, slowly. And then they’re pulling into the driveway of a pretty two story suburbian house, with a big garden on the front and a patio with swinging chairs that look like birds’ nests and Ricky is kinda impressed.

“I thought you’d have a gate,” he says, grinning. “You know, with your initials ingraved on it or something.”

“I’m not Bruce Wayne,” Juan Carlos says, and he’s doing that wonderful frowny thing again. He’s switched off the car, so Ricky reaches out to drag a thumb over one of his eyebrows; Juan Carlos turns to look at him, and Ricky smiles, and then he’s not exactly sure of how he does it, but he ends up straddling his lap, stuffed inbetween his Alpha and the steering wheel, and they’re making out like it’s the Apocalypse and making out like horny teenagers — which, admittedly, is a category that still comprehends Ricky, — is the only way to stop the world from collapsing.

Ricky shifts back after a while, licking his lips and they feel wonderfully swollen and wet; Juan Carlos tips his head back against the headrest, looking at him from under heavy lids. He must know what he’s doing, he _has_ to, because there’s no way he’d bare his throat like this without thinking it a hundred times over; Ricky leans in as slowly as he manages, and drags his mouth up his neck, baring the slightest hint of teeth.

Juan Carlos growls, his grip on Ricky’s waist tightening enough to be painful, but he doesn’t move. Ricky sucks at his pulse point, then moves up with lazy, open-mouthed kisses till he’s reached Juan Carlos’ chin; he stops there, his mouth an inch away from Juan Carlos’, and he grinds his hips down until the friction against his groin sends sparks straight to his brain.

Ricky arches back and upwards, Juan Carlos pulls him down and if in his life Ricky Rubio’s ever thought that coming in his pants is somewhat undignified, Jesus fuck he was so, so fucking _wrong_.

“Juanki,” he whines, rubbing against him a little; he feels breathless and weirdly raw, wet and disgusting and great. Juan Carlos grunts into his ear and shoves the door open.

“Out,” he says, his voice the thickest it’s ever been. Ricky complies, because it’s all fun and games until your Alpha actually orders you something, and before he knows it he’s scrambling out of the car with his head so light he could probably start floating around, three feet from the ground.

When he catches his breath, he looks up and realizes Juan Carlos is still sitting behind the wheel, his mouth an upside down smile. Ricky shuffles on his feet, makes himself smaller inside his leather jacket.

“Sorry,” he says, not really looking at Juan Carlos. The garden around him still smells vaguely like a fading autumn, even if they’re past the half of November and the trees are little more than naked bones. The grass is brightly green, though, clearly someone’s looking after it.

Ricky hears footsteps crunching on the gravel, and when he tears his eyes off his feet Juan Carlos kisses him. It’s brief and dry, but Ricky closes his eyes anyway and breathes in his Alpha’s scent.

“It’s okay,” Juan Carlos mumbles, cupping Ricky’s face and gently tipping his head to the side, so he can kiss him a little better. When he draws back, this time, Ricky is out of breath again, but he’s grinning.

“Okay,” he says. Juan Carlos wrinkles his nose.

“You need a shower.”

*

“Do I smell a zarzuela?” Ricky asks, walking barefoot into the kitchen with his hair still damp from the shower, dripping water down the back of his neck. He had to wash and dry his boxers because Juan Carlos refused to hand over underwear, but he’s wearing a t-shirt straight from his Alpha’s closet, which is wonderful because, well, it smells amazing, but it’s also mildly disappointing, because it’s so big Ricky’s swimming inside it.

Juan Carlos looks up from the stove for a brief moment.

“I’m sure I gave you some pants,” he says, dry as the desert. Ricky giggles, swaying his arms around as he walks to the kitchen’s island just behind Juan Carlos, and hops up to sit on top of it.

“Didn’t fit me,” he says, in his most innocent tone.

“Thank you for at least wearing the shirt, then,” Juan Carlos replies, and Ricky’s pretty sure that was actually sarcasm, so he laughs. He reaches out with a foot to the hem of Juan Carlos’ hoodie, but Juan Carlos grabs his ankle without even turning, and shoves it back in place.

“Hey, careful, I make a living with that,” Ricky hisses, but it’s not like he can put much force behind it because, you know, healing factors and everything.

“Do you like shrimps?” Juan Carlos asks, and he picks a colander from the sink.

“Love them,” Ricky says, swinging his legs; Juan Carlos hums quietly, and Ricky watches him clean up the crayfish.

The TV on the other side of the room is set on the sports channel but it’s just background noise, a low, uninteresting buzz that goes well with the rich smells from the kitchen: the leftover saffron-and-mussel broth on the stove, the bottle of wine Juan Carlos’ used to cook, the fish and potatoes in the oven, the slight sting of lemon that’s probably the dish cleaner.

“You don’t have a dishwasher?” Ricky asks, because he doesn’t see one.

“I don’t mind doing the dishes,” Juan Carlos answers, not even slowing down in his beheading-and-shelling-shrimps business. He’s a good cook, or at least he looks the part; he doesn’t flail and doesn’t hesitate, he moves around with purpose and he looks so focused he could probably do without all the stoves and the oven, just cook stuff with the intensity of his glare.

Ricky likes a man who’s comfortable in the kitchen. Well, Ricky likes men, and food, and beards. It’s a wonderful coincidence it all comes together with Juanki, really.

He jumps off the isle and goes to press himself against Juan Carlos’ side.

“Can I have one?” he asks, looking up at him from under his lashes. Juan Carlos does stop, now; he gives Ricky a pointed look, the tip of his tongue reaching out to touch his lips which is very, very unfair, because Ricky was not trying anything — well, he onestly wants a shrimp anyway.

“Subtlety, Rubio,” Juan Carlos deadpans, but he picks a clean shrimp with two fingers and holds it out anyway. Ricky doesn’t even bother with a smile — he won and they both know it, no need to gloat, at least for the moment, — he just leans in and takes both the shrimp and Juan Carlos’ fingers into his mouth.

Juan Carlos closes his eyes like he’s enduring some sort of cosmic punishment he absolutely did not deserve; Ricky disagrees, because when you go around looking like that it’s just fair that someone might want you to stick your fingers into their mouth. And other places, maybe.

Ricky moans under his breath, the shrimp tucked behind his teeth at the back of his mouth, and he sucks on Juan Carlos’ fingers and wraps his tongue around them. Maybe it’s an Alpha thing, maybe it’s because he’s been handling food for the past half hour or maybe it’s just Juan Carlos, but he tastes amazing, and Ricky’s second moan is even more genuine; he lets go of his fingers and moves to Juan Carlos’ palm, mouthing along it all the way down to the wrist.

He nips at the tender skin there, licking as he watches it turn pink over Juan Carlos’ blue veins; he wonders, very briefly, what his blood might taste like, but then Juan Carlos’ hand is in his hair and he tugs at it until Ricky tips his head back for a kiss.

It isn’t exactly gentle, this time either; Juan Carlos pins Ricky back against the kitchen counter and bites and sucks at his lips until they’re swollen and red. Only then he does kiss him, a frantic friction of lips on lips at first, matching that of his hips against Ricky’s — the rougher fabric of his jeans against Ricky’s naked thighs, — which Ricky sets fire to when he just opens his mouth wide and sticks out his tongue, arching up against him.

Juan Carlos steals the half-bitten shrimp from his mouth, and Ricky breaks the kiss to whine. Juan Carlos grins, reaches out behind Ricky’s back to get another one which Ricky sucks from his fingers again.

Juan Carlos kisses the top of his head, and Ricky calms down just enough to catch his breath.

“I think my heat might be a little early,” he whispers on Juan Carlos’ lips, and he feels, more than seeing them, curve up into a small smile.

“Young and handsome and amazing,” Juan Carlos says, his tone only slightly mocking. Ricky giggles, steals another quick kiss and wiggles out of his grip.

“I know where the bedroom is,” he says, as flatly as he can, which isn’t much considering how his face is stubbornly trying to split into a gloating grin.

Juan Carlos frowns, “Dinner first,” and Ricky wants to hate him, honestly he does, because he’s achingly hard in his boxers and he can’t think of anything except how much he wants to have Juan Carlos all over him again, but Juanki made him a _zarzuela_ , for fuck’s sake, and you can’t possibly argue with that.

Ricky shrugs.

“I’ll set the table.”

*

Dinner turns out to be a quiet affair, all things considered. Juan Carlos _is_ a good cook, and the salmon in the zarzuela is especially amazing; Ricky helps himself to three servings and he simply shrugs through Juan Carlos’ amused look.

“Young, handsome and amazing,” he reminds him. “A man’s gotta eat to keep this up.”

“A _man_ ,” Juan Carlos repeats, disbelieving, and Ricky giggles and ducks his head in agreement. Maybe man is a tad too much.

They don’t really talk much, what with Ricky being so busy stuffing his mouth and Juan Carlos, well, Juan Carlos who, if only ever talked any less than he does, would be clinically mute. Anyway, the lack of conversation is not really an issue, because they find a rerun of last night’s NBA games, which neither of them has had a chance to watch; they settle for the Raptors versus Celtics match, even though Ricky would’ve liked the Grizzlies versus Lakers one a lot more, because a Gasol duel’s always fun to watch, but Juan Carlos made a weird face when it showed up on the channel, and everyone knows about his thing with Pau, so Ricky didn’t want to upset him.

The game’s not over yet when they’re done eating, so they move to the couch to yell at the referees from a much more comfy position. Before they do that, though, Juan Carlos tells Ricky to leave the plates and everything, he’ll think about that in the morning. Ricky just stares at him for a second.

“I can’t believe this — you don’t have a maid?”

Juan Carlos shrugs. “I told you, I’m not Bruce Wayne.”

Ricky tries to argue that, yeah, he might not be Batman — not that he couldn’t be, if he wanted, — but he sure as hell is pretty much their _king_ , so why doesn’t he start acting like one, maybe buying a better car or just, you know, not taking out his own trash, but Juan Carlos’ forehead gets all crinkled, like he really doesn’t understand why someone wouldn’t want to wash their own dirty clothes, and Ricky gives up on him.

Mostly because they have settled on the couch by then, and Ricky scoots until he’s propped against Juan Carlos’ side and when he folds his legs under himself, they’re not cuddling, but really, they are.

“I don’t even know why they call this basketball,” Juan Carlos mumbles when, after a particularly clever steal from Calde, the Celtics side looks so baffled they can’t put up not even a bit of defense against the quick turnover.

Ricky chuckles and kisses his cheek.

“I knew you were one of them,” he says, settling back with his head nestled into the curve of Juan Carlos’ neck.

“Them?”

“NBA haters,” Ricky explains, scratching the inside of his knee. “Because European basketball is just so much better and proper, right?”

“Well, it is,” Juan Carlos says, and just as he’s closing his mouth, Bargnani slips past his defender like he wasn’t even there and scores a two-handed dunk. “This is a show-off, not a game.”

Ricky makes an uncommitted sound. There’s a framed picture on the wall, it must be from last summer because Juan Carlos is sporting a red mohawk in it; he’s got Pau’s arm around his shoulders, they’re sitting close on a too-green field with a too-blue sky hanging above their heads, trees weighed down with bright white flowers everywhere around them, and they’re not even looking at the camera. It is, for all purposes, a stolen moment, a bit of something they don’t share with anyone else. Juan Carlos is smiling softly, leaning up a little, and you can’t really see Pau’s face, but he can’t be too sad about all that. It looks like they’re seconds away from kissing.

Ricky pushes into Juan Carlos and arches up to nip at the top of his ear.

“What is it?” Juan Carlos asks, turning slightly to him.

Ricky kisses his stupid mouth until he doesn’t remember what Pau looks like anymore, and then he says, “Nothing.”

Juan Carlos kisses the tip of his nose, curls his fingers into the still-damp hair at the back of Ricky’s neck. His other arm sneaks around Ricky’s waist, and effortlessly, Juan Carlos lifts him up and shifts him so that Ricky’s now straddling his legs. He rubs slow circles into Ricky’s hips, and smiles a little when Ricky leans in staring at his mouth.

“I can hear it when you lie,” he whispers, and when he licks his lips, the tip of his tongue brushes Ricky’s, too.

Ricky shrugs and takes that damn kiss for himself. When his hips start pushing into Juan Carlos’ touch, slightly rocking left and right, Juan Carlos pulls back.

“Bedroom,” he says. Ricky grins.

“Dinner was great.”

Juan Carlos kisses him briefly. “I know.”

“And your face is my favourite face of all the faces,” Ricky insists, nuzzling the curve of Juan Carlos’ jaw. That earns him some more hair-petting, but then Juan Carlos grabs him by the scruff of his neck and pulls him back.

“I’m not carrying you to bed.”

Ricky pouts, but eventually, he climbs off Juan Carlos’ legs.

“You are so stubborn,” Ricky tells him, sticking out his tongue. Juan Carlos laughs and reaches for the remote.

“Kettle, meet the pot,” he says. Ricky can’t even decide if he’s more baffled, amused or moved by exactly how much of an adorable, grumpy old man his Alpha can be. He doesn’t get to utter a single word, though, because Calde scores an easy corner three-pointer since the Celtics completely forgot about him, and Juan Carlos holds his hands out, palms up, like he does whenever the referees call a foul he didn’t even dream about committing.

“What did I tell you?” he says, and Ricky laughs and shoves him into the hallway.

*

Honestly, Ricky was over this whole heat thing pretty much by the third time it hit. It always seemed a bit silly to him, not to mention also slightly undignified, but hey, it’s in their nature, and what can you do about nature except roll on your back and let it have its way. Quite literally, if you’re not careful enough.

Most kids, and especially boys, don’t really get their heat under control until they’re done with teenage years; Ricky is seventeen, he became a professional basketball player at age fourteen, and he’s been able to control the worst of the dazes for a while already. It’s a bit of a matter of pride for him; he’s always striving to be better, and _more_ , and getting the handle of this thing so early in his life was simply another challenge to shatter, just like getting a quadruple double in an international game.

He’s had his difficult times, obviously, mostly because, as long as he’s underage, he’s not allowed access to the ataraxics all the other athletes use if their heat stirs a little too much during the regular season. His mother makes him tea, mostly; when he was a kid, like very very young, sometimes his father had to lock him in the basement to keep him from running out and harass every girl and every boy in the neighborhood.

He’s mostly okay, now, even though they still keep him off the team whenever heat is due, which he’s secretly grateful for because it’s one thing keeping it down when you’re home alone or sneaking into a club filled with consentient possible partners, but it would take a completely different effort not to jump every other teammate in the shower or even just on court, when the adrenaline from the game is the only real thing in the world.

Anyway, Ricky doesn’t tell any of this to Juan Carlos, not the part where his seven-year-old self had to be caged like a rabid animal and _especially_ not the part where he wouldn’t mind it if half his team decided to jump his bones. And the only reason he doesn’t talk is because he’s too busy trying to figure out if there’s a way he’s going to survive this.

He’s inclined to believe there isn’t any.

They’re just kissing, Ricky half-sunk into Juan Carlos’ pillows, his arms around Juan Carlos’ neck, Juan Carlos over him propped on one hand while the other is tracing a nonsensical pattern up and down Ricky’s chest, still clad by his t-shirt, and Ricky feels like he’s losing it already.

It’s the position, he decides after a moment; it’s the fact that with this angle, Juan Carlos’ beard tickles just the underside of Ricky’s lips. It’s the fact that they’re not even touching, but thanks to Juan Carlos’ body’s warmth, Ricky feels him just as well, everywhere over and around him.

It’s his scent and his hand that Ricky keeps arching into but it’s not even nearly enough. It’s the fact that Juan Carlos, now, is kissing Ricky like he’s making promises — he’s gentle and calm and careful and Ricky wants all that, but he also wants the exact opposite. He has no idea what he wants.

“Juanki,” he sighs, breaking the kiss and smiling at the little smacking sound their lips make. “Juanki, please don’t be a tease.”

“Says the one who’s only wearing a t-shirt,” Juan Carlos grumbles, but he does push that damn hand finally into Ricky’s body, following a long line from his chest to his hip. Ricky sighs and arches and wants another kiss.

“And boxers,” he babbles, when Juan Carlos’ hand reaches back up and he rubs at one of his nipples almost casually. “I have my boxers.”

“Ah,” Juan Carlos says, thoughtful. “Right, your boxers.”

Ricky finds himself being lifted up by the shoulders, and he doesn’t really push back because, hell, why bother. Juan Carlos makes him sit, and he himself is kneeling between Ricky’s half-spread legs. He licks at Ricky’s lips for a moment, and then he tugs at the front of Ricky’s shirt until he uncovers the boxers.

“Take a look,” he says, his voice low into Ricky’s ear.

Ricky looks down and, yeah, he can see the point; his boxers, black and tight and short on the thighs, are doing nothing to hide the bulging profile of his cock, he can even make out one of its thicker veins. Pyjama bottoms would’ve probably worked better, and Ricky doesn’t even want to know what his ass looks like in these things. (Only maybe he does want to know just a little, not that he’s vain or anything, he’s simply curious. Really.)

“Uhm,” Ricky says, attempting half a grin. Juan Carlos’ eyes narrow and he nods.

“Hm,” he agrees, and when he leans in again Ricky’s ready and open-mouthed already. It’s a sloppy kiss that Ricky needs only as an excuse to let his hands wander — to touch and feel and possibly undress a little, seeing how the only bit of clothing Juan Carlos dropped was his shoes, and that was before dinner.

Surprisingly, or maybe not so much after all, Juan Carlos lets him. He even helps Ricky out, actually, tugging his hoodie off his own head and unzipping his jeans; he’s not nearly as frantic as Ricky in his movements, however. On the contrary, he’s still all calm and collected, and the only sign of life from him, except of course his hands and his kisses and the way he keeps looking at Ricky up and down like he can’t quite believe he’s actually here, comes when Ricky shoves his jeans away and then inhales sharply when he notices the bulge in Juan Carlos’ underwear. Juan Carlos does shift around a bit at that, making a vaguely embarrassed face, and then he shoves Ricky back down into the mattress.

“Shut up,” he says, “you’re bigger.”

Ricky opens his mouth because that seriously needs a retort, but Juan Carlos cuts him off with a kiss; they end up clacking their teeths together, and it takes them a moment to readjust. Ricky laughs and presses his nose into Juan Carlos’ cheek, his hands dropping down to scout over his chest.

“We should check that,” Ricky whispers, tracing the shape of Juan Carlos’ cock from over his boxers with a finger. Juan Carlos’ eyes flash red for a moment; Ricky is too distracted by the hot weight against his hand to really notice.

“Your wish,” sighs Juan Carlos into his ear. Ricky shivers and doesn’t choke back a moan; Juan Carlos’ hand finds his knee, slowly moves up his thigh until he can sneak his fingers under Ricky’s boxers.

“Juanki,” he says, “you’re teasing again.”

Juan Carlos huffs a small laugh; he kisses Ricky’s lips lightly, and then he kneels back to get them both out of their underwear.

“Better?”

Ricky grins, “Much better,” and he wants to do something very stupid and sudden and random, but Juan Carlos gets to him first. He pushes him down and then drops his hips just as Ricky arches into him. Juan Carlos’ half-set cock slides against Ricky’s very, very much hard one; the touch is enough to send a surprised gasp up the kid’s throat.

“Hm,” Juan Carlos agrees, and he shifts just to see Ricky scrunch up his nose and whine. “Ricky. What do you want?”

Ricky could probably come just from being asked that; he bites his lips to try and stay focused, but the only thing that matters to him right now is just how much he can rub up against Juan Carlos.

Juan Carlos gets it, shifts again so that they’re only barely touching now, and pins Ricky’s hips down with a hand. Very helpful.

“Uhm,” Ricky says, trying to squirm free. “You.”

Juan Carlos laughs a little. “Yeah, I got that.” Ricky thinks, _subtlety_. “What else?”

Ricky opens his eyes, thinking that maybe taking a good look at Juan Carlos is going to help him make up his mind. No, nope, no chance in hell; he stares at his warm eyes, the barely up-turned curve of his lips, the dark shadow of his beard and hair and then whatever he can see of his body, and the only word in his head is _everything_. He’s had too much time to think about him, and all, _all_ the things he’d like to do.

Ricky takes a raggedy breath and figures he might at least try it.

He says, “Everything.”

And he expects Juan Carlos to pout and call him out on it, but after a beat, Juan Carlos just smiles.

“We can work with that,” he says, and he cups Ricky’s face with one hand and kisses him for another while.

When he lets go of his lips, Juan Carlos shifts down Ricky’s neck; he presses open-mouthed kisses all the way down to his chest, and when he’s there, he moves in a line of shallow bites to one of his nipples. Ricky squirms, tries to tell him that he’s ticklish, but then Juan Carlos’ mouth closes around the hard tip and suddenly, he’s not ticklish anymore.

Well, except that he is, a little; Juan Carlos’ beard rubs his skin in a good way, though, and as long as he keeps doing that — _oh_ , that sucking-and-nibbling thing, Ricky should be okay.

“Juanki,” Ricky says, and he’d tug his hair but it’s too short to really grab it. Juan Carlos just hums casually, Ricky feels the vibration echo inside his chest and his hips snap up like a trap.

“Easy,” Juan Carlos says, and as he moves down Ricky’s sternum, he keeps rubbing his nipples with his thumbs.

Ricky is breathless already, and no matter how much he twists under Juan Carlos, he can’t seem to find even the smallest bit of friction for his aching cock; he grabs Juan Carlos’ hands, then, twining their fingers together.

Juan Carlos is somewhere around his navel now, and he looks up for a moment; Ricky really wants to kiss him all over.

“Can you just—” he tries, squeezing Juan Carlos’ hands, and the bastard smiles to himself.

“Yes?”

Ricky tries to articulate something, anything, but all he can come up with is an annoyed groan, and he flops back into the mattress. 

Juan Carlos’ smile hasn’t dropped; he shifts to lay on one side, his head of height with Ricky’s stomach.

Ricky is thinking that, fuck, he’s not even in heat, not really, not yet, not _completely_ , when Juan Carlos leans in and drags his tongue painfully slow along Ricky’s cock. It’s so stupidly sudden that Ricky flails a little like the most idiotic idiot ever, but then he’s melting and he can’t really move anymore except to just breathe out a moan.

Juan Carlos sucks at the tip and Ricky whines; Juan Carlos drops down a little and Ricky really _has_ to look: he lifts up on his elbows and Juan Carlos is there, lips stretched around Ricky’s shaft, one hand pushing his thighs open a little. When he moves, Ricky throws his head back and bites his bottom lip.

“Juanki,” he says, and Juan Carlos’ tongue flicks around him and Ricky feels his blood boiling. “ _Juanki_.”

Juan Carlos doesn’t pick up his pace, nor does he swallow Ricky whole or anything; he probably likes the teasing more than the actual feeling of Ricky’s cock on his tongue. After a moment, he moves down and away, to lick and bite at the tender skin of Ricky’s inner thigh.

Ricky’s biting his knuckles when Juan Carlos looks up to him.

“What?” he asks in a whisper, leaning up to kiss him. He hooks an arm around Ricky’s waist to hold him up, and Ricky sighs.

“Please, please just fuck me,” he is begging, and that was a fairly specifical request; Ricky doesn’t exactly expect Juan Carlos to flip him over and just take him, but honestly, heat or not he’s at a point where he wouldn’t even mind.

“Uhn,” Juan Carlos says, instead. He sits back, pulling Ricky to him, and he touches his hand all the way down from Ricky’s shoulderblades to his thighs. Ricky’s busy thumbing at the curve of his hips and pressing his tongue into the little dimples on Juan Carlos’ shoulders, but he still grins when Juan Carlos’ thumbs slip under the curve of his ass.

“Please, Juanki.”

Juan Carlos gives Ricky’s cock a small tug, which makes him gasp and fold up a little. With his other hand he reaches to tilt his chin up, and gives him a light kiss.

“I really like you,” Ricky says, touching the tip of his nose to Juan Carlos’.

“Flattery,” Juan Carlos grunts, and the rest of the reprimand, _flattery will get you nowhere_ , stays buried deep in his throat, but it’s clear in his eyes.

Ricky laughs, mumbles the sweetest nonsense into his chest.

“Can I at least—” he says, and then eloquently closes his hand against the base of Juan Carlos’ cock. “With my mouth?”

Juan Carlos has the nerve to _blush_.

“Are you kidding,” he mumbles, trying to hide his face behind one hand, and Ricky stares.

“No, Juanki, are _you_ kidding me? You literally just had my—” Juan Carlos bites his lips to cut that off, “—ouch, you like it rough? I like it rough, you know — anyway, seriously, you just had — okay, okay, I’m not saying that, but you _did_ have it in your mouth.”

“Please, just shut up?” Juan Carlos says, and Ricky beams up at him, his smile turning a little mischievous at the edges.

Juan Carlos’ cock is, like apparently everything about him, hot and heavy on Ricky’s tongue; it tastes and smells like his fingers did, before dinner, and Ricky hums happily around it and then he doesn’t choke, really, he doesn’t, when Juan Carlos likes that humming so much he gives a small shudder.

Ricky likes the way it feels. With his tongue, he traces a vein that runs from its base to the tip, and Juan Carlos seems to like that, too, but honestly, is there anything he wouldn’t like right now? Ricky’s always bragging about how proud he is of his skills, but he’s never said he’s referring exclusively to the one he can show off on court. Seriously, reporters are so naive.

Juan Carlos tangles one hand into Ricky’s hair, and Ricky smiles— as much as he can, which is _not_ very much, honestly; Juan Carlos can have all the complexes he wants, he’s definitely big enough for Ricky’s mouth to hurt at the seams, — and arches his neck into it. That sends the tip of Juan Carlos’ cock straight into the roof of his mouth, which Ricky didn’t expect, but it’s nice. Juan Carlos seems to think so, too.

Ricky lifts his head up all the way, until he’s left with only the tip between his lips, and if he steals a glance up to Juan Carlos’ face, it’s just because how the hell could he not. He pushes his thumbs against the base, which makes Juan Carlos go very still and tense; the hand in his hair shifts to the side of his head, then, and when Ricky turns into it, sucks Juan Carlos’ index finger in his mouth, Juan Carlos lets him.

Ricky feels his own dick twitch in anticipation; he’s growing hotter and looser, Juan Carlos must’ve smelled it. His entire lower body is pulsing in time with his Alpha’s heartbeat, and Ricky moans when Juan Carlos’ fingers slip out of his mouth.

“Ricky,” Juan Carlos says, and Ricky only half-hears him, but he moves up and finds his mouth like it’s his most natural instict. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Ricky says, licking his lips, and when Juan Carlos’ first finger starts circling him, he doesn’t even notice. “I like your nose.”

He presses a kiss to it, and Juan Carlos smiles, rubs a hand up and down his spine as he pushes his finger in a little.

“Oh,” Ricky says; Juan Carlos starts to frown, and Ricky grins. “A good _oh_ , Juanki. Hurry up?”

“You’re not even in heat yet,” Juan Carlos says, and somehow, even through the daze, he manages to make Ricky feel like he’s being scolded. Must be one of his Alpha powers or something.

“I am,” Ricky says, and Juan Carlos slips in the second finger maybe a bit too hard, like he’s saying, _I know it when you lie_. Ricky huffs. “Okay. Not yet, maybe. But I think I am, a little.”

“A little,” Juan Carlos repeats, and Ricky rolls his eyes and kisses him because yes, that’s what he just said, thanks for listening. Juan Carlos rubs his ringfinger around Ricky’s hole, finds it wetter. “Okay,” he says. “Maybe a little.”

Ricky grins, “Told ya,” like he can just get into heat on command, which maybe he can? He needs to look into that.

Juan Carlos is still a pedantic, stubborn bastard, though, so he insists on teasing him with those two damned fingers, which then become three and four and by the time he seems satisfied, Ricky is throbbing and half-dead with frustration.

“Juanki, you are the worst,” he whispers, but then Juan Carlos’ hands are on his hips, tugging down slightly.

“Go on,” Juan Carlos says.

 _Go on_ , Ricky thinks, is the best thing he’s ever heard.

“You could work on your subtlety,” he bites back, and then he lowers himself onto Juan Carlos and he doesn’t feel it burn not even a little until he can’t take anymore. That’s when he stops, eyes wide and his breath short and shallow; Juan Carlos thrusts up a little, and Ricky hiccups, impossibly tight around him.

“Are you—”

“Yeah,” he sighs, and Juan Carlos barks a laughter that’s maybe a bit hysterical. “It’s okay, you’re— Juanki, you are—”

“Shush,” Juan Carlos says, kissing him briefly. “It’s fine.”

“I know,” Ricky whispers, and he tries to grin; Juan Carlos puts his hands on Ricky’s thighs and rubs the soft skin there, sometimes brushing the side of his cock. “Oh,” Ricky says.

“A good one, I hope,” Juan Carlos replies; Ricky huffs out a quiet laugh.

Juan Carlos, then, has to agree with the _oh_ , especially when Ricky’s okay enough to start moving again; and that’s nice, that’s very nice, that’s very much great and Ricky ends up begging for more so desperately that Juan Carlos has to shove him back into the mattress and start thrusting into him, keeping his legs spread wide with his hands.

Ricky bites the inside of his arm until Juan Carlos tugs it away and offers him his own mouth instead; that has Ricky bent practically in half, but he throws one leg over Juan Carlos’ shoulder, hooks the other around his waist and bless the billions side slides he’s had to do in his life that made him fairly numb to fatigue.

Ricky comes undone the moment Juan Carlos says on his lips again, “Go on.”

He just loses it, it’s an electric charge going off at the base of his spine, a scalding wave built up by Juan Carlos’ thrusts set out inside his blood; Ricky arches off the bed with a soft moan trapped in his chest, Juan Carlos’ grip on his hips tight enough to bruise.

“Juanki,” he says, and he thinks that’s when Juan Carlos comes, too; they both drop boneless after what feels like forever, and Ricky wraps his legs around Juan Carlos’ waist because he’s not going anywhere any time soon.

Juan Carlos tries to lift up on an elbow, but Ricky makes a whiny noise.

“I’m crushing you,” Juan Carlos says, with half a smile.

“You’re okay, I like it,” Ricky replies, and nibs at his throat for a while. Juan Carlos rolls his eyes, but he settles so that Ricky’s bony everything doesn’t bother him too much.

“You need a shower,” he deadpans, after a pause.

Ricky huffs, but then Juan Carlos starts to move off of him again so he has to give up.

“Okay, okay,” he says, in his best yielding voice. “Five more minutes, and then we shower. Together.”

Juan Carlos doesn’t even bother complaining.

**Author's Note:**

> As you might've realized, this is not an AU, just a "what if everyone we know as human was actually a werewolf", so it has things that are 'canon' (aka really real) and others that are not; besides, the werewolves component is pretty mild and I'm sorry about that (nope, not really). It's set in November 2007 because of reasons, but IRL Ricky Rubio didn't move to Barcelona until 2009, so let's consider that as another What If bit.
> 
> ...welp, this is a lot of rambling for what's basically a PWP. Okay.


End file.
